


The Trouble With Humans

by AJGhostWolf



Category: humans are space orcs - Fandom
Genre: Alien-Human War, Aliens, Human-Alien Alliances, Other, Torture, War, humans as pets, sorry I'm bad at tags, space, space travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22308781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJGhostWolf/pseuds/AJGhostWolf
Summary: I often read a lot of Humans are Space Orcs Posts that I don't always necessarily agree with or would bet on being true, so I decided I would write my own series on what I imagined Human-Alien interactions to be like, both friendly and not. Thanks for the interest! I'm writing all of it from a more realistic standpoint, so hopefully that's attractive. Enjoy!
Kudos: 25





	1. Blank Faces, New Experiences

It was the changing of the guard in the captain’s quarters when a Human soldier stubbed his boot-clad toe on the table. 

“Lieutenant Malone,” the captain mused, glancing up from his field report to look at the Human in front of him. “Did you just . . . . run into the table?” 

“Yes, sir,” Malone said tightly, standing stiffly at attention. 

Captain Aries tilted his head in what he knew meant “confusion” to the Humans. “I was to understand,” he said slowly. “That ‘stubbing toes’ was especially painful to Humans?” 

Malone arched an eyebrow. “It may hurt, because the bones in our toes are so small, but I _am_ wearing steel-toed boots, sir.” 

“Hm.” The captain settled back into his chair to continue reading the report. He glanced up again after a moment. “Lieutenant, we are to be recieving two new Humans on the crew soon.” 

Malone merely lifted an eyebrow in partial surprise and what Captain Aries thought looked like uninterest, then looked away again. 

“Does . . . . this not excite you?” Aries asked. “I thought Humans were a pack-bonding species.” 

“Most are.” 

“Yet you are not excited?” 

Malone seemed to sigh. “Sir, I was referred to you as a top-of-the-line soldier from some of Earth’s toughest militaries and Search-n-Rescue ops. Because my particular branch of government wants only stability here in ‘Space,’ they don’t irritate anyone into a war. I’ve been trained not to be over-emotional about my crew-mates, or anyone else.” Malone’s tone, as usual, was almost totally flat. “Except for Lennox, as you are well aware, friendships have no part in my line of work.” 

Aries nodded, slightly troubled by the response, and finished the report. While he read, he began to occasionally glance over the holopad at Malone, who stayed stiff as a rod, unmoving. Most of the Humans Aries had come into contact with couldn’t stay still for more than a few minutes, at most. Malone had already stood without movement for more than ten, and had before for nearly ten hours when on a guard post. 

That shift, of course, had been permanently mitigated after Malone had immediately “blacked out” when trying to walk away. 

The other Human on crew, Lennox, also did not have an issue with things most of the Human issues Aries had heard of. 

Of course, those Humans were not part of the strict militant group that had been assigned to this ship. 

Lennox and Malone did not seem to be friends in any sense Aries understood, but would take meals together and were willingly assigned to bunk in the same room. They often talked, but Aries had never seen them “smile,” an action that made him and the rest of the crew uncomfortable, but that had been recognized as necessary for what was determined as imperative to every species; genuine happiness. 

Aries was beginning to feel uncertain about the entire matter, and finally put his holopad down with a sigh. 

“Lieutenant,” he murmured at length. “Are you ‘happy’?” 

Lieutenant Malone blinked and stared at him for a moment. “Sir?” 

“Are you happy?” Captain Aries repeated. 

“Quite, sir,” Malone said uncertainly. He felt very confused. 

“You never smile,” Aries stated. A frown was beginning to form on his face. 

“Have I reason to?” Malone asked in a troubled tone. “I believed it made other species uncomfortable, the baring of teeth.” 

“It does, but . . . . I thought Humans needed to do it?” Aries was just as confused now. 

Malone shook his head slowly. “I’ve had nothing to make me smile in a long time, sir, and it scares others to bear my teeth. Why would I, then, if it bore that much impact on the lives of others?” 

Aries gave another sigh. “You are very insightful, Lieutenant. It seems far from a Human.” 

Malone’s look was one of agreement and slight, almost hidden, humor. “I’m not much like other Humans, am I?” 

“No,” Aries said, standing from his chair. “And, frankly, it confuses me a great deal.” 

Malone’s shoulders rose and fell in a meaningless shrug and he followed Aries as he left his room and headed for the officer’s mess hall. Malone stationed himself between the bay window and the corner, getting the usual disdainful looks from other officers, seated at various tables to eat. 

They didn’t care for him or Lennox, and they made it very clear. 

They repeatedly had told them how Humans were so predatory, un-uniform, so disorganized and suicidal with every waking moment, and just so very very stupid. They never failed to mention that they did not like it that they had to share a ship with two of them, soon to be four. 

Malone and Lennox let it all roll off. They had both been bullied worse by high schoolers and army-brats, and those kids were just a bunch of idiosyncratic lemurs most of the time. Their biggest insults had only managed to be, “You’re gay!” “No, you’re gay!” Most of the time, they’d found it more amusing or annoying than actually nasty. 

If the officers had nothing on even that, they were poor excuses for bullies at all. 

Lennox was at the table nearest him, staring mindlessly out of the bay window with his chin in his hand, dark purple circles seemingly carved under his eyes. He only looked up when Aries set a tray of what looked like heavily-sugared oatmeal on the table and sat, the scandalous mutters of officers following the move. 

Aries had made a statement without saying a word, a statement he’d been aching to make for weeks. 

Lennox met Malone’s eyes and slightly inclined his head at the meal station, indicating that he should get something to eat. Malone nodded and moved to do just that, trusting Lennox to keep his eyes on Aries. Guard duty was mostly a formality, anyway. Most Captains lied about even having the guard, although the “High Command of Universal-Alliance” (OSHA’s better Space cousin) had instructed it as mandatory. Humans, the newest members of the Alliance, were typically put into the position for a few rotations until they had gained enough experience to be used full-time elsewhere. 

Lennox and Malone, however, had been specially chosen for the task by the HCUA. Aries, just like the Human war god, had made some powerful enemies in his time. 

Malone returned moments later with a plate of the bland oatmeal and a cup of hot black caffeine. He sat and began shoveling the food down, trying to finish eating as quickly as possible. 

Lennox had gone back to staring out the window, only occasionally drinking from his cup. He turned suddenly to Malone, who noted the messy hair and eye bags and concluded he had not slept well. 

“Scuttlebutt has it there’s to be two new Humans,” he said, humor tugging faintly at his voice. He abruptly realized he had used the Human Marine term and was quick to apologetically glance at Aries. 

“Scuttle . . . . but?” Aries asked. 

“Gossip,” both Humans clarified, almost in unison. 

“Oh. Yes, there is. Two female Humans. I have been told their names are Emma Dorin, a _Grridaas_ class, and Jacqueline Lopez, a _Halvanian_ class.” 

“That’s one really low rank and one really high,” Malone grunted, scraping his spoon all down his plate to get all of the food off of it. “Never have met an Emma I liked yet.” He looked at Lennox. “Of course, _you_ haven’t met one you didn’t.” 

The dry humor missed Aries. “Will this create problems, Lieutenant?” he asked. 

“No, sir, it will not,” Malone stated firmly, finishing off his food and settling back slightly to drink his coffee. 

He looked out the bay window, letting his mind begin to wander. He was drawn back to reality by the feel of a stare. 

“Why do you like staring out of the window?” Aries asked incredulously. “It drove one of my last crewmen insane.” 

Lennox chuckled dryly, without showing his teeth. Aries still found it setting off alarms in his minds. 

“Some refer to it as ‘the call of the void’,” Lennox murmured. “It’s a way to let your mind drift aimlessly. You can hole up in your head for hours like that.” 

“Why?” 

“Good way to think. Nice way to pass the time, too.” Lennox glanced down to check the time on the holopad strapped around his forearm. “You can blank out for hours that way, an’ I still have a few until my shift starts.” 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping, then?” Aries asked. 

Being around Humans always left more questions than one had started with. 

“The thrills of Insomnia,” Lennox muttered, taking another drink of coffee. “I never sleep, seems like.” 

“You should see a medic,” Aries said, weighing his words. “Lack of sleep will kill you.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Lennox sighed. 

“Insomnia is incurable,” Malone explained. “And, in Lennox’s case, untreatable as well.” 

“What is this ‘Insomnia’?” 

“It’s a sleeping disorder. It means that my mind is too busy for me to fall asleep as quickly as I should, and even when I do, I wake up more than I sleep.” Lennox waved a hand in dismissal. “Every week or two it all catches up to me.” 

“Is this a common affliction among Humans?” 

“Not really anymore, with new treatments. My military background prevents me from getting those, though.” 

“Why?” Aries frowned. “If anything, I’d think that would insure you would receive treatment.” 

Malone gave a sigh. “When you’re part of the military, the Government becomes concerned that you’ll try to commit suicide with drugs, because of the things we’ve seen in war. For a while, a common excuse to get drugs to veterans was Insomnia, so no vet’ that _truly_ has Insomnia can get meds now.” 

“That’s outrageous!” Aries sputtered. 

Lennox nodded somberly. “It is. But at least there’s medication out there for it.” 

Aries still looked very concerned and irritated. 

“Any Human different from the norm likely has something wrong with them,” Malone stated. “That’s what made them so different, because they aren’t, and can’t be, like other Humans.” 

Aries sank back in his chair bewilderment on his face. He noted there were many others listening in to the conversation, also with shocked expressions. 

“Why have your medical officers not attended to these issues?” an officer asked with a perturbed tone. 

Malone shrugged. “Not enough people are affected by it for ‘our’ doctors to care. They wouldn’t make much of a paycheck off of it if they did make it, anyway.” 

“Your doctors care more about money than your personal well-being?” another officer questioned. 

Lennox scoffed. “Yeah, that’s about right,” he said in a contemptuous tone. 

“Had a friend who died because he didn’t want his family saddled with the debt of a surgery for an easily fixable illness,” Malone said softly. 

Lennox nodded recognition. “Ol’ Bennie,” he said. “Good man.” 

“One of the best,” Malone agreed. 

“That should be changed,” Aries stated with a considerable amount of heat in his voice. “That’s wrong.” 

“Yeah, it is, but what can you do?” Malone asked. “Doctors and hospitals are just so wrapped up political and bureaucracy tape that they won’t change, can’t change.” 

“You Humans are so odd,” one of the officers mused. His tone was not nearly as disdainful as it normally was. 

“Well,” Lennox drawled. “At least we’re distinctive. Just wait until those women get here. They’ll probably really throw y’all off again.”

* * * * *

The silver liquid slid into Sam’s ears in freezing agony, scraping down his ear canal to his brain with enough of a bite to make him double over and howl in agony, clawing at his ears as he fell to his knees and elbows. 

The damned C _ hipokals _ watched his pain impassively, with no more emotion than if they were staring at a wall. 

“Damned, bloody Green-bellies,” Sam spat, his head on the floor between his knees, moaning at the pain of the wet coldness that burrowed through his brain. “I swear to God I’ll — ” 

He never got to finish with his threat as the pain dulled and he suddenly went deaf and half-blind, his vision going bright, warped, and blur- red. 

Badly dazed but not down, he stumbled unsteadily to his feet threw himself at one of the C _ hipokals _ with a looping swing. It was clumsy, and the huge C _ hipokal _ side-stepped it easily. It grabbed Sam by the back of the neck and shoved him to his knees, popping him in the head once to make him hold still, then reached under his arms and strapped a mask-like muzzle onto Sam’s face that caught under his chin and ran up his nose and cheeks to the bottom of his eyes, stopping before his ears. It was completely solid its whole length, like a thick plastic ski-mask around the mouth and nose. 

Sam, jolted with pain and far out of his element, almost sobbing in frustration, tried to wrench himself loose, the muzzle hot and tight against his face. The C _ hipokal _ , all of four feet taller than Sam, cuffed him in the back of the head again and threw him back into his dog-cage sized cell, talking to his friends and seemingly laughing. 

Even if Sam couldn’t understand it, just the sight of it ticked him off. He lunged against the door of the cage, or rather, tried to. His head exploded in pain before he touched the door and his knees buckled, making him slam into the ground. He held his head and tried to wrench off the muzzle that shot almost unbearable, electrocuting pain through his body, making him writhe on the cold floor. It was secured using something he couldn’t get a hold of, or at least understand, and every time he touched the back, it sent a fresh wave of nauseating pain through him. 

Through glassy, blurry eyes, Sam looked up at the C _ hipokal _ in front of the cage, holding a small holopad remote with a leer. It tapped something on the holopad and the burning pain eased, only renewed when Sam hesitantly tried to touch the back. 

The whole awful process had exhausted Sam, and as angry as he was, he didn’t have the strength or coordination to get up again. He lay on the floor and panted his frustration, letting the tight tenseness drain out of his trembling muscles. 

The C _ hipokals _ stood outside the cage and smirked, then one wedged something in his ear. 

“Can you understand me,  _ Human _ ?” 

Sam jerked in surprise and looked up at the one who had apparently spoken, who had a busted nose and an equally ugly smile on his lime-green and purple spotted face. 

Sam glared at him. He would have spit, but the heavy, kevlar-like coated muzzle prevented any sort of movement of his jaws. 

“Apparently you can.” His nasty smirk widened, and bile rose in Sam’s throat. In the slick, snake-like voice he simpered, “Don’t worry, your new caretakers will be here shortly.” 

He turned to the others and spoke, but Sam couldn’t understand any part of the transaction done by the others, who weren’t wearing earpieces. 

The only C _hipokal_ he could understand grinned at his friends and turned to Sam. “You’re lucky, your new caretakers are a very rich family.” His face turned mean and irritated suddenly. _“_ But I can’t imagine why they’d want a useless, broken Human like you. Too stupid to talk and too dumb to die, unless, of course, they want to eat you after parading you around for a while in their neighborhood.” 

Sam thought an awful word at him and snarled like a wolf, the sound deep in his chest. He could only feel the vibrations in his throat, not hear them, but by the way the C _ hipokal _ reacted, he definitely was able to. 

Anger twisting his ugly face, he swung a huge hand at the door and threw it open, stalking in and picking Sam off the ground by the back of his short jacket. He threw him into the wall and punched him low, in the gut and side, with stunning force that tossed Sam into another wall. Feeling everything inside him give under the impact with an unmoving rock wall, Sam toppled to the floor and lay there, and the C _ hipokal _ , on him in a heartbeat, kicked him hard, driving the air from his lungs. 

Vision blurring even more and only a ringing in his ears, Sam desperately covered his muzzled head protectively and waited for the C _ hipokal _ to kill him. 

When nothing happened after several long seconds, he looked up and saw a different C _ hipokal _ he’d never seen slap the one that had beaten him and point at the door. Broke-nose left quickly, with his head bowed in shame. 

The new C _ hipokal _ sighed and turned to Sam, inserting the metal fitting into his ear and closing the cell door. 

“I do apologize for your rough treatment. You must think we are barbarians.” His voice was soft and cold, and Sam hated him immediately with passion. “Now, sleep. You have a prospective future ahead of you, and you will need rest. Sleep.” 

Sam’s head lolled and he felt the unnaturally induced blackness of false sleep overwhelmed him. 


	2. A Goddamn "Space-Puppy"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with newbies, you may remember some of the posts I didn't quite agree with from this, I dunno, and getting more into the cultures of the two different types of Aliens that are are around Humans - the friends, and the captors.

Chapter 2

 _Rim-Planet_ Orroyeb _, serial_ ST4-1329-32

“Space puppy!” Emma screamed, hands on her cheeks as she ran down the plank toward the Drilogtha Btneter cub. 

Drilogtha Btneters looked close to foxes, or maybe cats, depending on the view-point, and were the size of a big wolf when full grown. The cubs were the size of small dogs when they struck out on their own, like this one apparently had. 

Drilogtha Btneters were also _extremely_ dangerous, no matter the age. 

As the rest of the crew looked on frozenly in fear, Emma began stalking the cub, clearly going to try to catch it. 

Malone gave a _very_ heavy sigh and touched the comm unit in his ear. 

“Captain, you may want to have someone prepare a cage in the cargo hold,” he said, clearly irritated from his tone. 

“Why?” Aries asked, his vocals immediately distressed. He had received many calls like this. 

“We’re about to have a guest.” 

“What? Whom?” 

“A Drilogtha Btneter cub.” 

For several long moments there was silence on the comm line. 

Then, “O-okay. The cage.” Malone almost thought it was done when he heard, “Oh, and Lieutenant, I expect you, Lennox, Lopez, and Dorin to meet me in my quarters for _Gbro’el_ meal. Dinner.” 

“Yes, Captain,” Malone said, ending the conversation and filing the information away so he could deal with it later. He was about to be busy. 

“ _Grridaas_ Dorin!” he called, mustering such a level of gravel and steel in his voice that it made the alien crew near him cringe away. Took him back to his army days. 

Dorin held up a hand, motioning for him to wait and irritating him even further. Then she pounced. 

The Drilogtha Btneter cub put up a good fight, but Dorin wouldn’t let go. She came out of the dust cloud covered in blood, scratches, and hair, but the Drilogtha Btneter was in her arms, limp in defeat. 

“Yes, Lieutenant?” she asked, grinning wildly. 

Malone jerked his head at the ship. “They’ll be a cage in the cargo bay for that.” He frowned as Dorin smiled. “Don’t get your hopes up, we’ll probably cook the damned thing. We’re to have dinner with the Captain tonight. If you’re not on your best behavior and learn some goddamn _tact_ , I’ll leave a lengthy report with your commanding officer. The Civilian-Cap-tain Maddox, if I’m right.” 

Dorin’s smile had fallen as he continued, becoming a lip-pooching frown. 

“Don’t you _even dare_ try that shit with me, Dorin,” Malone hissed, eyes crashing like ocean waves in a cross-current. “I won’t take it.” 

Dorin reeled back a bit in surprise, slightly angered that her tactic hadn’t met with success. “Yes, Lieutenant Malone,” she bit out, emphasizing the “Lieutenant”. 

Malone huffed a breath, he knew what she was doing. “Don’t run after one of the most dangerous predators in the galaxy again, _Grridaas_ . Or I _will_ pull you from active duty and put you in the nearest psych ward.” With that final order, he turned on his heel and stalked back up into the ship. 

The crew moved hastily out of his way; he might not be well liked, but his was predator-based species, and every other alien on the crew was from a prey-based one. They were instinctively terrified. 

The reason his old tactical unit had called themselves _The Wolves_ , he thought with an imperceptible smile. They were the scrappy, dogged Earth predators among the sheep of the Universe. That was also the reason that leeches like Dorin could get away with whatever they wanted; no one dared oppose them. 

Upon reflection, Malone was quick to acknowledge that he had had zero issues with Jacqueline Lopez. In fact, he had nothing but good experiences. She did her work, kept herself out of trouble, and acted, in all ways, both friendly and kind, though socially reserved outside of the workplace. The best type of person there was; low maintenance. 

Malone patiently paced the ship, looking for Lopez and Lennox. Comms were far easier, but he enjoyed a walk now and again. 

Lennox, Lopez, and Malone all worked as Senior Guard Members, a position that for Malone and Lennox came with tacticality, not superiority. Otherwise, with their limited time on the ship, they never would have been selected for the honor. 

Lopez had been specially chosen for the position from another ship, as her high ranking _Halvanian_ class indicated. Malone and Lennox were actually under her orders, if she ever chose to give them any. So far, though, she treated Malone and Lennox as equals as opposed to underlings, unlike Dorin would do if she could. Luckily, she was a _civvie_ , and was zero part of the three soldiers’ jobs. She was a “researcher,” which was a generous term for “someone rich enough to buy a bed for a year.” 

Working S.G.M., naturally, meant that all three Humans were constantly moving from one point to the next on the ship, and never had an accurate fix on the other’s locations. That made it difficult when they had to find one another. 

Lennox rounded the corner in front of him, a surprised look on his face. “A _Drilogtha_ _Btneter_?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “She’s _really_ overstepped.” 

Malone sighed. “Yes. Aries wants to have us in for dinner. All four of us.” 

Lennox just yawned. “Terrific.” 

They started walking together, aiming for the Security Wing so that Malone could check out from active duty and Lennox could check in. 

“Cap’ takes his dinner at seventeen hundred,” Lennox reminded. 

Malone nodded. “Meet you at sixteen-thirty, then.” 

“Uh-huh. You’ll tell Lopez before you turn in?” 

“Sure.” 

Lennox gave him a look. “Be careful, even out in space, a man is a man and a woman is a woman. Don’t do anything that could come into any sort of scrutiny.” 

“For sure. I’m always careful.” 

He wasn’t looking forward to dinner.

* * * * *

Farliaan jerked on Sam’s leash, forcefully pulling him up the steps to the huge doorway. Thalliul, his _Kraetta_ , or wife-partner, and their children, Gebo and Jerra, followed closely, running playfully up and down the steps to the gigantic building. 

The huge place reminded Sam of a church, cold, indifferent, and powerful. 

Farilaan pushed a small button on the door that let out a high-pitched whine, so loud and piercing that Sam clenched his teeth and gave a hiss, clutching at his ears and shaking his head back and forth violently. 

_Dear God, I’m acting like a damned dog,_ he thought irritably, unable to stop himself. 

Thalliul looked at him with concern, her three foot hight difference to Sam making her slightly bend to be able to see him clearly. 

She moved to touch him, and Sam jerked as far away as he could on the leash, growling deeply through the muzzle. 

Farilaan whirled and grabbed Sam by the shirt, picking him off the ground and shaking him like a rat. Snarling, he was about to hit Sam when the door swung open. 

“You are the Yunomia family?” a female _Chipokal_ asked chipperly, walking through the door. Her trained eye took in the scene without reaction. 

“Yes,” Farilaan grunted, dropping Sam, who wobbily managed to keep his feet. 

“I’m Rieallo, the coach for the session. Who’s this?” the female asked, gesturing to Sam. He snarled at her and lunged back, and she smiled. “My, he’s a feisty one.” 

Farilaan glared and smacked Sam on the back of the head, hard enough to sting. “Gebo and Jerra haven’t decided on a name yet. For now, I call him Stupid.” 

Rieallo gave a short, patient smile. “We try to refrain from labelling, here at the sessions. I hope, in time, you understand the reasoning behind doing so.” 

_A shrink,_ Sam thought bitterly. _A fekkin’ dog-training shrink._

Rieallo turned and walked into the building, and Farilaan followed, jerking on Sam’s leash to make him follow. 

Inside, the place was situated like an A.A. meeting place, which Sam had been to a few of, well before the war that had brought him to this foreign planet. There were semi-foldable chairs arranged in a rough circle, and off to the side a table with food and drinks. There was a large cage in one corner that took up a good fraction of the space inside the building, its chain-link walls running all the way up to the ceiling. 

This meeting, however, seemed to have an air of pedigree about it to Sam, one that wasn’t at any A.A. meeting he’d been to. 

Several _C_ _hipokal_ families sat in their chairs, each looking highly wealthy, like Farilaan and Thalliul, and every single family had a leashed and muzzled human at their feet, sitting and staring at each other in confusion. Three of the humans were men, most likely captured from the front lines of battle like Sam, and two women. One was about thirty, and the other probably only measured up to nineteen. The three men ranged from twelve, thirty-ish, and the last near forty. 

“Alright, let’s get started!” Rieallo called out with a smile. “First, I’ll have you please take your Human to the enclosed area.” She pointed to a cage several yards from the circle. “Humans are very social and pack-bonding, and will wish to be around other Humans. When you put them inside, please remove their leashes and muzzles.” 

Farilaan didn’t have to pull to get Sam moving to the cage, he was excited to talk of an escape plan with the grey-haired man he’d recognized as a Major Levi Russell. Also, he wanted to get away from the ring of _Chipokals_ , they made him nervous. 

Once his leash and muzzle were removed, Sam waggled his head from side to side and worked his jaw, rubbing his face where the clammy skin had gotten painfully cold. 

The first one in the cage, he waited for the others to be released, the Major being the last. Levi’s “owner”, Sam noticed, treated him roughly, and Levi was definitely favoring his left leg, the one Sam knew was already ‘bum’ before the war had broken out. 

Plenty of the familiar defiance and pride in his face was gone, a slackness in its place. He was breaking. 

“Major,” Sam called, walking up to the dazed man and warmly clasping him on the shoulder. 

“Captain Allen?” the Major asked, tone shocked and distant, matching his facial features. He swallowed Sam in a short bear hug, then shook his hand. “I almost don’t believe it.” 

Sam frowned as he observed Russell’s badly battered face, bruised and cut up from his forehead down to his chin. His nose, which Sam correctly diagnosed broken, was beginning to swell slightly, as was a blackened left eye. His lip was split and his teeth were bloody, and there was a half-dried trickle of blood running down his scalp. 

“Someone’s got a hell of a right hook,” Sam mused, gesturing to Russ’s face. 

Levi grimaced, giving his face up something at least akin to emotion. He nodded at his owner. “Ahgruid.” His features twisted with semi-strong hate and distaste. “I’ve tried fighting back, but he’s way too strong. I don’t even do anything and he’s on me.” 

“What, he’s just beating you to get off on it?” Sam asked incredulously. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “Christ. I didn’t know _Chipos_ had psychopaths, too.” 

Russ shrugged wearily. “Well, I’m pretty sure he is one. Haven’t had a minute of peace until now.” 

“How long’ve they had you?” 

“Couple weeks, I think. Time’s hard to keep track of when you don’t much see the sun.” 

“Keep you locked up, too, eh?” 

“Yeah, basement-thing. You?” 

“Hell, the old man hates my guts but the old lady seems alright with me. The kids convinced them drag me into their ‘yard-thing’ at least once a day.” 

“Keep you in a dog cage?” 

“Yep, chained up. You?” 

“About the same.” 

The sandy-haired Human of middle-age, a soldier, walked up to them, one hand in the pocket of his fatigues. “Excuse me, sirs,” he said slowly. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I recognized you from back on Earth. Major Russell, right?” 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Russell said, giving a weary smile. “What’s on your mind, soldier?” 

“Well, sir, I was hoping we could sit down a spell and talk awhile.” 

“Sure.” Russ limped to the nearest wall and slid down it, giving a grunt when he hit the floor. Russ offered his hand to the tanned soldier when the man sat on his left side. “Your name?” 

“Sergeant Bill Seaver, sir,” the man said with a faint smile, adding, “We were with you in Star Battalion, at the North Garrison battle.” Seaver glanced around, then pulled something from his pocket and handed it to Russell, shoving it slightly under the man’s short jacket. “You’re lookin’ mighty thin, sir.” 

“Pemmican?” Levi asked, staring into the small paper bag and trying to give it back. “Lord, Sergeant, save it. Time’ll come when you need it for yourself.” 

“Sir, my new folks actually feed me better than the Army has for the past decade. I figured there’d be at least one human, though, who wasn’t so lucky.” He again shoved the folded paper bag into Levi’s inside jacket pocket. “Damn it, don’t argue with me, sir. You need this, I don’t.” 

“Be nice to the man, Russ,” Sam said with a miniscule smile. “He’s right, and you know it.” 

Sam turned away from them and looked at the remaining people, the two women and the boy, staring at him. Sam gathered his breath and walked toward them, extending his hand. “Sam Allen.” 

“Jack,” the young girl said, grabbing his hand firmly. 

Sam liked her eyes, blue as deep ocean on the outside and green as an Ireland fields against the pupil. Reminded him of his mother’s eyes. 

“I’m Don,” the other woman introduced herself, a firm grip but flat grey eyes. She would not take messing with. 

“And I’m Lane,” the boy said. His kind brown eyes were scored with purple bags from lack of sleep, and his hair, supposed to be brown, was blackened. 

Lane and the other two smelled strongly of gear oil and metal engine fittings, and had plenty of grease still smeared on them. 

“Three grease monkeys and three army boys, one busted-up pretty bad.” Sam shook his head and laughed, desperation demanding nothing else from him. “Damned if those aren’t about the worst odds I’ve ever heard.”


	3. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions of edibility and sanity, a few new characters,

Ch’thak’tra was at the front of the returning patrolling party when he heard an angry exclamation and several warning hisses from the bulk of the group. He whipped around and watched in horror as one of the Humans, Alsey, reeled back with red blood spotting his mouth. 

Yelps followed from his nearby landing party as  _ Gartithaam  _ attacked. Caught unawares, Ch’thak’tra could only watch in horror as the enemy bore down on them. 

The remaining Humans, a group of five Scouts, took only a scant look at their dead comrade and charged the  _ Garitathaam  _ pack. They fired their blasters into the writhing mass until they ran out of loaded charges, then changed tactics and smashed in heads with the heavy weapons. 

The Scout leader, Jack Grey, led his men through the small battle savagely, fighting without mercy. He took a round from an Oh-Forty Ready Gun through the lower left side, moving through the pain of ball-bearings and steel tearing through him. He was after the  _ Garitathaam _ that had shot him in a heartbeat, knocking the barrel of the multi-shot weapon aside with his own and slamming a steel-knuckled glove into the creature’s face. As it fell, Jack coldly slammed the butt of his blaster into the  _ Garitathaam _ ’ _ s  _ face several times with all his strength, mashing its skull and brains into a bloody purple pulp. 

Blood-splattered, he looked up in time to avoid the trust of an Assault-Tac bayonet held by another one of the Creepies, this one trying to disembowel him with the rusty short sword. 

Jack swung around another lunge and let his empty rifle drop from his hands, still held to his person by a sling, and pulled out his knife, a converted Bowie-like weapon that would easily go through any and everything. He waited for the creepy to make another jab and got under the swing, pivoting and coming up under the creature’s chin, slitting it from gizzard to gullet with the razor-sharp knife, cutting into the meat halfway to massive  _ Garitathaam’s _ spine. Jack yanked his knife back and jabbed it into the creepy’s left eye up to the hilt, to be safe, and let the creature fall to damp ground. 

As a force of habit, he wiped his knife blade off on the creature’s clothing and put it away in its sheath, and then he finally staggered. 

“Major!” one of the Scouts, Shep, called, running to his side. “You’re bleeding!” 

Jack, panting, wrenched his sour-smelling helmet off and gave a grim smile. “Well, I’m alive, ain't I?” 

The young man gave a tight grin at that and helped Jack sit on the cooling  _ Garitathaam  _ he had killed to inspect the wound. 

The small battle was over. 

The Scout took one look and shook his head. “Medic! We need a medic, now!” 

As two of the non-Human medical officers crouched down and probed the messy wound, Jack clenched his teeth and gave a grunt. The pain was coming on, adrenaline and shock finally wearing off, and their rough handling was not very pleasant for him. 

“He won’t make it,” one of them finally said, withdrawing his bloodied fingers. “We’re without any form of aid for the next twenty rotations, but if we don’t operate within the next few hours he’ll surely bleed out.” 

“Isn’t there something you can do until then?” Ch’thak’tra asked softly. “To alleviate some of his pain?” 

The other medic gave him a grim look. “We don’t have the necessary medical supplies on this rock to do that, sir. We can try to make him comfortable, but that’s about all.” 

“Bull,” Jack wheezed as he slid down the side of the  _ Garitathaam _ to sit against it in the dirt. He twisted painfully to a left an inch or so to address his second in command, Glen Tolliver, a battle-seasoned veteran that had been with him for over a decade. “Tol’, you remember  _ Brineshin _ ?” 

Tolliver gave a grim nod and sighed. “Damn. How could I forget? Ok, Jack, if that’s the way you want it, that’s the way we play it.” 

He stood and gathered up small sticks and what looked almost like Earth’s own sagebrush, tearing up a mound of fire-starter from his kit and building a tent with the sticks. 

His fellow Scouts, recognizing the implication of what Jack said, were roving for dry wood or brush in the high-desert terrain. They quickly built a small pile of fire burner, mostly twigs and drift-wood from times unknown. Tolliver used a few to add to the tent, then ignited the pile. A small pot was offered to him with a canteen, and he emptied half of the water into it before placing it near the small flames. He took a rag and a roll of bandages from dead Scout Halsey’s pack and placed them near to hand. 

Jack, pain glittering his eyes, unsheathed his knife and handed it to Tolliver hilt first. 

Tolliver accepted it with a grim twist of his mouth and plucked a couple of powder bullets from his belt, slicing them open and pouring the black dust into his palm. He wedged the blade into the coals and gently poured the gunpowder into Jack’s wound, wincing as he heard the man stiffen and hiss through his teeth in pain. 

“What . . . . are you doing?” one of the medics asked, half-fearfully. 

“Something old,” Tolliver muttered, studying the cherry-redness of the knife blade a moment before shoving back in the coals. “Best bite down on something, Jack.” 

He leaned forward and used a burning twig to ignite the gunpowder. Jack arched back and growled low in his throat, clenching his teeth on a stick he’d grabbed for the purpose and feeling it creak under the pressure. The growl had almost progressed to a scream before the flames finally burnt out and Tolliver soaked the raw wound with a wet rag. 

Jack’s mouth eased around the stick, but he didn’t spit it out just yet; they were only halfway done. 

“This is animalistic!” Ch’thak’tra exclaimed. “Barbaric, even!” 

“Yes, sir, it is,” one of the Humans said flatly. “But it’s either this or let him die. Badly.” 

“I suggest you not look,” Tolliver warned suddenly, just as he set the knife flat on the gaping mouth of the wound. 

As Jack moaned around the stick, crackling and popping sounds filled the air with the sickening smell of burning flesh, causing some of the Humans to turn away and most of the alien crew to gag. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eon, Tolliver gouged the knife into the ground and again pressed the rag to Jack’s side. 

Jack, his eyes glazed, let his head loll to the side and spat the stick out, its fall trailed by a stream of blood. “Bit . . . . my tongue,” he wearily explained, struggling to keep consciousness after the excruciating pain. 

“Just  _ barbaric _ ,” Ch’thak’tra muttered, turning away and walking stiffly toward the camp. The rest of his crew followed him. 

“You’ll be alright,” Tolliver grimly informed Jack. “Sit up so I can bandage it.” 

He helped Jack lean forward and wrapped his middle with the self- adhesive bandages, a simple gauze pad over the small exit wounds, which Tolliver had deemed not serious enough to worry about presently. 

“Ol’ ramrod-up-the-butt Ch’thak’tra sure wasn’t blessed with a whole helluva lot of survival sense, was he?” Scout Rigg muttered. 

The others scoffed quietly and nodded. 

Another Scout, Miyo, stood from his crouch on the ground and helped Tolliver bolster Jack to his feet, slipping Jack’s right arm over his shoulders. 

“I’ll get him into a bunk,” he assured, walking slowly so Jack could easily keep up despite severely limping. 

He walked them to the Scout’s tent, making way to the back of the semi-sectioned off area, all of forty feet long and fifteen feet across. 

Miyo helped Jack sit on the edge of his cot and began to unbuckle the heavy kevlar armour that, no matter how short of time it was worn, always stunk of sweat. 

Miyo neatly piled the armour and gear on the table beside the cot before allowing Jack to lay back on the rough green canvas, face drawn with pain he refused to show more of. 

Knowing the man, Miyo firmly said, “Stay in that bed, sir.” 

“I will for tonight.” 

“No, sir, you’ll stay put for the mandatory three days before another medical eval. That is  _ your _ rule, sir.” 

“Don’t use me against me, Miy’,” Jack muttered, sleep claiming him at long last. 

* * * * *

Two weeks later, Jack was sitting in front of the tent, polishing his boots. 

He and several others had been suspended from active duty until the medics aboard the ship  _ Halinta _ could check their injuries out completely. The ship was still several days away from there, so the wounded Scouts guarded the base while the rest of the group was away. 

Shep, left arm cradled in a sling, sauntered over. “Think ya got enough shine on them boots yet?” 

Jack squinted at the boot in his hand, then muttered, “Not until the glint can scare off a starving  _ Bintar _ , I haven’t. What’s up?” 

“A small bunch of  _ Orriptas  _ was spotted to our east, and we could really use the meat. I know we can’t spare energy charges, so we’ve rigged up a few compounds.” 

“Alright, ‘s your call. Kline and Miyo are probably the best shots with a bow, but you can take whoever you want.” 

“Thanks, Jack.” Shep stood, made as if to walk away, then suddenly looked back. “You might wanna check with Ch’thak’tra when he gets back, I heard from some of the men that we’ve lost all contact with  _ Halinta _ . That we’re on our own, now.” 

* * * * *

“So Lennox is edible, and I am not?” Malone asked, brow wrinkling with confusion. 

The gathered assortment of aliens around his table nodded, smiling and laughing. 

“Explain.” 

When all he was met with was cackles, he turned to their young leader and demanded, “ _ Shrayetca _ Deaon, as your commanding officer I demand an answer or you will face charges of mutiny and conspiration against the Human race. Explain yourself. Now.” 

Deaon’s face went sick. 

None of then would be good at poker, Malone thought grimly. They’re open books. 

“Well, sir . . . . ah . . . .” Deaon stuttered. 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” a tired voice from tables away spoke. 

Malone glanced toward it and observed Re’draka, of the  _ Rijdabe _ species. He was the highest ranking officer on the ship, part of the Captain’s hand-picked personnel crew. He was second only, and barely, to the Captain himself. 

At Malone’s questioning look, he continued, “It doesn’t mean a thing. It is the equivalent of a ‘practical joke’. This one just happens to be spread universe-wide in concern with the Humans.” 

“Is this the ‘edible-non-edible’ thing?” Hallick, another  _ Rijdabe _ from the S.G.U., asked as he walked into the room. “Don’t believe a word of it.” 

Malone ran a hand over his grey hair, closing his eyes in dismissal. He was far too tired to devote energy to this particularly foolish subject. 

“Are feeling well, lieutenant?” Hallick asked. 

“Just  _ peachy _ , Hallick,” Malone snapped, quickly changing the subject. “Status on the  _ Halinta _ ?” 

“Missing, sir. We picked up part of her ground party for medical atten- tion. We’re still trying to learn what happened.” 

“Who’s their commanding officer?” 

“A  _ Ch’thak’tra _ is the party leader. Braen is the Chief Medic, Raklin in Infantry, and Grey is Scout leader.” 

“Jack Grey?” 

“I believe so, sir.” 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Malone muttered to himself. “They’ve docked and boarded?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. I’ll go talk to Scout Major Grey.” 

Hallick merely nodded. “Yes sir, he’s in the medical wing.” 

* * * * *

“Well damn my eyes if that ain’t Bex Malone!” Jack called through the medical wing. 

Malone tried to contain his smile. “In the flesh. You wanna yell any louder? I think the folks eight decks up didn’t quite catch that.” 

“You old sonuvabitch, how you been?” Jack slid off of the med table and gave Malone a handshake-hug. 

“Fine, fine. I hear that you made Major Scout?” 

Jack made a face. “Not that I wanted it, but yeah.” 

Malone just laughed at him. “What landed you here in medical?” 

Grey lifted his shirt and exposed the still some raw wound, angry red in color and about the size of his palm. “ _ Gartithaam _ with a F.R.O.G.” 

“Ouch. Where’n hell’d they get an Oh-Forty?” 

“I dunno, but it’s not comforting. They might’ve attacked a settlement or camp or somethin’. Not like they can really  _ buy _ anything from anyone.” 

“Good point.” Malone frowned to himself as he thought. “ _ Are  _ there even any settlements on that planet?” 

Jack just shrugged. “Damned ‘f I know.” 


	4. Torture, Chipokals, Mercy, and Hate

“How you holding up, Cap?” 

“Not . . . . great,” Captain Walsh admitted, breathing hoarse. 

“Just tell ‘em what they want to know, sir,” the unseeable voice from another cell pled. “Give ‘em what they want, and they’ll stop.” 

Walsh snorted, making him taste fresh blood and his chest throb awfully. “Fuck them . . . . and you too.” 

“You kin you cannae take much more, Cap’n,” a different voice said, strongly Irish. 

“I’ll be damned . . . .” Walsh wheezed. “If I let ‘em . . . . have anythin’.” 

The loud clang of a heavy door stopped the conversation, and each dreaded the sound of the heavy, shuffling footsteps they heard. A towering  _ Chipokal _ came into the dark, circular room with cells off each turn of it and tapped a holopad, lighting the room with a harsh white glare. 

In each cell, human prisoners with their hands, feet, chest, and necks cuffed to the wall, squinted against the glare and snarled at him. 

Walsh was the only one who didn’t react. Couldn’t, even. 

The huge  _ Chipokal _ looked at him from the center of the floor for a moment, then stepped into his cell and studied him closer. 

Walsh’s hands were cuffed high enough above his head that he about hung from them, and his neck and wrists had been rubbed bloody against the unyielding metal. He had taken dozens of serious beatings over the past few days of his capture, and when it became obvious he wasn’t going to give up any information that way, they had escalated in violence. 

Walsh was a step from dead, and not a very big one. 

The  _ Chipokal _ looked at the I.D.-stamp they had seared into Walsh’s forearm, shoved a bloody translator into Walsh’s ear, and growled, “Prisoner zero-one-four, respond.” 

Walsh didn’t react to the  _ Chipokal _ ’ _ s _ command, and the big torturer repeated the command, voice brittle and a threat obvious in his tone. When Walsh again didn’t move, the  _ Chipokal _ slammed a powerful left into his midsection, forceful enough to pick Walsh off the ground and jolt him up into the wall, hard against all of his restraints. 

The pain didn’t even translate to Walsh’s dulled brain, and he slumped back against the wall as bonelessly as if he’d never been struck. Bile, blood, and saliva drooled from his slack mouth and slid down his grimy chest. 

The  _ Chipokal _ had glared at him a moment and re-lifted his fist when a voice cried, “Don’t hit ‘im again, you bloo’y heartless beast! Can’t you see ‘ee’s long out of it?” 

The  _ Chipokal _ , sneering, yanked the translator from Walsh’s ear, strode into the cell where Irish soldier, Sena O’Galley, stood strained hard against his bonds in defiance. He shoved the translator none-too-gently in O’Gall- ey’s ear. 

“What is it to you?” the  _ Chipokal _ ground out, getting up in O’Galley’s face. 

“You kiss yer mother wiff ‘at mouth o’ glass?” the Irishman taunted. 

The  _ Chipokal _ belted him hard across the mouth without expression. “What is it to you?” he repeated thinly. 

“You’re killin’ ‘im,” O’Galley spat, blood smearing his lips and fire his eyes. “You’re killin’ ‘im, an’ I’ll not just stand by an’ watch.” 

“Get Walsh help, or this brutality’ll be run by your superiors,” some- one growled. “They won’t like it if he dies on your watch, especially if you killed him, ‘zactly what you’re doin’. Get the Cap’n help, now.” 

The  _ Chipokal _ snarled deeply, but something in the argument must have been right, because he took the translator and turned on his heel. He stalked out of the room, turning off the lights and again plunging the dungeon into mad darkness. 

After the door had slammed shut, the first voice called out, “Hey O’Galley, you alright?” 

“Yueh,” O’Galley called back, cell walls preventing anyone from seeing each other. “Cap’n?” 

“Here,” Walsh called weakly. His thin body was painfully wracked by a fit of coughing, and he spat out a mucusy stream of blood. 

“How bad did ‘e hurt you, Cap’n?” 

Walsh, gasping for air, could feel wetness internally. He gasped and quietly admitted, “I . . . . don’t know. In the . . . . lungs.” 

“Shit,” someone muttered. 

The door creaked open again, and the guard pounded down the stairs, followed by three others of his kind. The original guard gestured briefly to O’Galley, then walked to Walsh’s cell with one of his friends while the other two went to Sena’s. 

The guard gave him a translator, then unlocked the cuffs binding Walsh’s feet first and slowly worked his way up, waiting for his friend to step back before unlocking his hands. 

Walsh just crumpled and hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, making no effort to stop his bone-jarring fall. 

The guard uncaringly yanked his arms up and behind his head, cuffing them to a metal ring in the tight collar on Walsh’s neck, then dragged him to his feet. He had to hold him upright a moment for Walsh to get his legs under him, then shoved him stumbling out of the cell. Only by a miracle did he not fall. 

Sena emerged from his cell at the same time, trussed up the same way. When he caught sight of Walsh’s true near-death and staggering condition he gaped a moment, then his face turned red. “Goddamn ya bloody green freaks! I’ll kill the lot o’ ya, I swear it!” 

The  _ Chipokals _ behind O’Galley shoved him up the stairs. He turned as if to fight back. 

“No . . . .” Walsh weakly mumbled, stumbling up the first few steps. “‘On’t . . . . ‘Orp’r’l.” 

“Damned if I won’t!” O’Galley snapped back. 

One of the  _ Chipokals _ prodded O’Galley’s back with his huge hand. “Quiet!” 

O’Galley obliged, still glaring as they were steered out of the dark dungeon. The brightness of the hallway was blinding, and both Humans reeled back when it hit them, but were shoved forward. They didn’t go very far down the white corridor before being steered into another bright room. 

It was set up much like a trauma center, with several  _ Chipokals _ of lab variety moving around inside at stations or speaking with each other. 

One stepped away from the rest and walked toward them, and Walsh realized that two of the guards had already left the room. 

“I thought I told you to be gentle with them!” the new  _ Chipokal  _ snap- ped at the main guard, looking over Walsh and Sena. 

“My superiors want information, Claren,” the M.G. snarled. “That trumps any  _ command _ you give me.” 

Claren, a doctor by his looks, glared at that and hissed, “Leave them here, Gr’taen, and run along,  _ back to your masters _ .” 

Irritated but obedient, “Gr’taen” and the other guard left the room. 

Claren looked at Walsh and Sena. “I am sorry,” he said sincerely. 

They just stared at him, Walsh dumb and Sena accusing, and he shook his head. “Well, come one, then. For your own sake, don’t try to run, there’s electro-sensors in your collars that won’t let you out of this room.” He look- ed Walsh up and down grimly. “It would probably even kill you.” 

No where else to reasonably go, both followed him as he turned and walked through the lab. Many of the  _ Chipokals _ stared at them, stopping what they were doing. None of them tried to touch either of the bloody, staggering Humans. 

Med training 101, Humans  _ will _ take off limbs if they can reach them. 

Claren had them sit on two cold operating tables and inspected them for several minutes, undoing all of their bonds except for the hated collars. He had them open their mouths and move their joints, take off their tattered shirts and bend as far as they could, then investigated their ears and fingers and toes and so on. 

“Goodness,” he muttered, tracing a particularly deep scar down Sena’s back, feeling an unexpected, surprising pulse of electricity run down O’Gal- ley’s spine as he did so. Sena mumbled something that Claren was sure would have made his frills turn, had he understood it. 

There were a multitude of similar old scars on both Humans, big and painful, and plenty of new ones. 

Sena—zero-zero-eight—was malnourished and bruised and bloodied, but otherwise alright. He’d heal within a few weeks, given proper care. 

Walsh—zero-one-four—however, Claren was doubtful of. He could barely breathe from fluid in his lungs, couldn’t bend more than a few of his joints, including parts of his back, and had broken or cracked several ribs and others of his internal “bones.” Claren was admittedly amazed that he was not only still alive, but had also managed to walk a good distance. His face was battered badly, and blood from numerous sources was all over him. 

Claren treated him as well as he could with his limited knowledge, and then called another  _ Chipokal _ over. “This one, zero-one-four,  _ will _ be re-desi- gnated to Reform,” he ordered. “Right now.” 

The  _ Chipokal _ merely nodded, then turned and made a calling-over motion. 

A group of space-suit wearing  _ Chipokals _ walked up, studying Walsh. 

“You must be very careful with this one,” Claren instructed them. “He is especially weak. No tranquilizers, drugs, beatings, or bonds. Any of these things would surely kill him.” 

Each of the spacewalkers nodded and two boosted Walsh to his feet, gingerly allowing him to curl around his pained chest and midriff before taking him away. 

Sena’s face was visibly relieved, and he called, “Ya’ll be fine, ya tough bas’ard! ‘Ood luck!” 

* * * * *

Walsh had never known he could get  _ so _ sick of peanut butter. As a kid, he had almost lived off of the stuff, but after a week of three square meals a day of  _ peanut butter _ , he had already almost vomited from the taste. 

He knew there were also almonds, spinach, avocados, berries, coconut, and jerked meat in the mush-like blend the  _ Chipokals _ gave him for food, but the damnable peanut butter was so strong it overwhelmed everything else. 

Walsh hit a pocket of pure avocado—another thing he despised—and grimaced, dropping the spoon back into the bowl and pushing it away from him on the floor. It slid a long distance on the slick-polished surface, and hit the opposite wall with a satisfying clinking noise. 

A  _ Chipokal’s  _ voice crackled out from a loudspeaker somewhere in the room. “You need to eat, zero-one-four.” 

Walsh snorted, still tasting irony blood at the action even after a week. “Shove it and go to hell.” 

“Your food contains all of the necessary ingredients to keep up your health so you will heal. You are still  _ very _ near to death, zero-one-four. You must eat.” 

Walsh growled, emphasizing the four extra canine teeth that had been fused into his mouth, manufactured of carbon fibre and steel for maximum fear-factor and damage. “Leave me alone with your synthetic peanut butter and avocados.” 

“They are not synthetic. Your species provided it themselves for your well-being, directly from Earth.” 

“No damned way. My planet doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.” 

“We did negotiate it with them. The deal was that they provide us with your material needs and we give the needs to you.” 

“You’re a damn liar. They’d never agree to that.” 

“They did when we told them that we wouldn’t feed you or take care of you if they didn’t send the necessary materials.” 

“The rest of my company hasn’t been fed more than twice in two weeks, if that. Where the hell does all that stuff go, then?” 

“You are not the only one in Reform, zero-one-four. There are dozens of others, and simple rules. As long as you behave, you eat. As long as you are submissive, you get water. And as long as you are doing what you are told, you will be treated well and eventually granted privileges. Is that plain enough about ‘ _ where that stuff goes _ ?’” 

“Yeah.” The word tasted bitter. 

* * * * *

They blindfolded Walsh and drug him into another bright room, cutting off his soiled clothing and throwing it away before shoving him into a cold metal containment area. They cuffed his arms to a high chain hanging from the ceiling, letting him wearily slump from it to take some pressure off his aching legs. It didn’t feel much good for the rest of his body, though. 

Jets of hot water suddenly blasted from all sides, contacting his still- battered flesh harsh and hot enough to make him growl in pain. 

The water abruptly cut after a long minute and a  _ Chipokal _ stepped inside the unit to administer a sharp-smelling gel or soap to Walsh, simply dumping it over his greasy, bloody hair and body before stepping back again to let the water do its work. The stuff stung like hell, too. 

Walsh just shivered and let it happen, feeling the fight drain from him with the water. 

It’s all just futile, he thought, barely quirking one side of his mouth for a mere moment. They’ll end up winning either way. I won’t. 

Soon, the water again stopped and left him hanging there; cold, shiver- ing, and miserable. The  _ Chipokals _ uncuffed him, mercifully caught him before he fell, and drug him out of the unit. They stood him on a semi soft surface and threw a towel at him. They waited for him to shakily dry himself before handing him new clothing; just another pair of plain grey sweatpants and short sleeve shirt. 

They wrapped a cloth-ier collar back around his mangled neck, threw the blindfold on, and moved him back to his room, half supporting his body weight as his little strength sapped away. Their hospitality, however, ended at the door and they just dropped him unceremoniously on the floor. The two  _ Chipokals _ ripped off the blindfold and locked the door behind them, leaving him alone. 

Almost. 

“Zero-one-four, how was your sanitation?” The voice was nauseating- ly cheerful. 

“It was screw you, asshole.” 

“There is no need for expletives, zero-one-four.” 

“I’d say it again, green-belly.” 

“Insults will not bring any response, zero-one-four.” 

“That’s not my name, dammit.” 

“That is your designation.” 

“Captain Daniel Walsh, one-one-nine-nine-two-five, United States, Earth Federation, U.S.E.F.  _ That _ is my designation, you green jackass.” 

“Again, expletives are not necessary, zero-one-four.” 

“Oh, take your prissy little ass to hell.” 

“ _ Chipokals _ do not believe in hell, zero-one-four.” 

“Well, shit, neither do I, but that won’t stop me from telling you that I hope you find it.” 

“Be careful, zero-one-four. Continued defiance will lead to repercuss- ions.” 

“I hope it does. What can you do to me or my men that you haven’t already tried, you sack of shit? I.E.F. and U.S.E.F. men don’t break for the likes of you.” 

“Your own actions have led to this, zero-one-four.” 

The collar beeped once, then sent a nasty-feeling shock through Walsh that didn’t drive him to the floor but came very damned close before it stop- ped. 

Through ringing ears, Walsh heard, “That was a low setting, zero-one- four. For each act of defiance, the shock is taken a setting higher. It does not have a ‘safety trip’ in it, as you would call it. It can and will shock you to death for ongoing insolence, zero-one-four, so be more careful in the fut- ure.” 

Walsh mumble-slurred an incoherent response and staggered to the corner of the room he slept in, collapsing against the wall and sliding weakly to the floor. 

“Tomorrow is observation day,” the voice cheerily commented, as if nothing had just happened. “With any luck, you’ll be going to a new home, zero-one-four.” 

Walsh just shivered and didn’t respond. 


	5. Stockholm Syndrome

Walsh had been drug to a cage room with multiple other Humans, all muzzled and chained and afraid. 

He couldn’t blame them. At least they looked like they hadn’t been as badly abused as he had. Maybe they’d be able to survive long enough to find out how to escape and fight back. 

Maybe. 

Groups of  _ Chipokals _ walked around the cages, all of them wealthy- looking. 

They’d removed Walsh’s translator, so he didn’t know what they were saying. From the panicked expressions they had, neither did the other Humans. 

For what Walsh guessed to be around nine or ten hours,  _ Chipokals _ walked around and looked and talked. After the first hour had slowly ticked by, Walsh dug himself into a corner and tried to sleep. 

The adrenaline high had crashed and he was light-headed from blood loss. 

A couple of humans tried to escape once, they were electrocuted into submission and removed. They didn’t come back. 

A few of the  _ Chipokals _ had children with them, who were so excited and loud that Walsh had to clamp his forearms over his ears. With his hands cuffed behind his neck there wasn’t much else he could do. 

He got relatively little attention over the course of the day; he was still battered looking and less open than some of the younger Humans, especially the Human children, whose presence gave Walsh no end of anger and sadness. 

A few times an older  _ Chipokal _ studied him or read the holo on him that was at the front of the cage, but that was about it in the interest. A few adolescent or teenage  _ Chipokals _ made fun of him for a while and threw pebbles at him to get him to move, but they were easy to ignore and eventually left. 

It was an uneventful and tiring day, and Walsh was relieved when all of the visiting  _ Chipokals _ were herded out the door. 

He expected to be removed from the tiny cage and taken back to the recovery room, but no one ever came. They just shut the lights off and left. 

There were immediately the sounds of panic, especially the children, but with muzzles on there was little enough evidence. 

For all of them, it was a very long night. 

* * * * *

The third day he had been in the show-room, Walsh was drug out of his cage and taken to the sanitation room, where the agonizing cleaning process repeated itself and he was given another new set of clothes. 

The old vinyl/leather and metal collar was back, instantly biting his neck and hurting, and the muzzle never came off. 

They shoved him into a room where two  _ Chipokals _ stood, an older male and female pair, and gave them the remote to Walsh’s collar, and the leash-chain. 

One of the guards handed them the translator ear-piece, and then they walked out. 

The male tugged on the chain, not too roughly, and moved Walsh outside. 

It was less dour outside than he had expected, they had a similar sun to Earth and it was shining bright and warm. Walsh liked the feel of it. 

The female noticed that and indicated to her mate to sit still for a moment, letting Walsh soak up some sun before moving into another room. 

There was a big circular pad on the floor, and the male inputted something into a screen and prompted Walsh onto it. The room faded away and a different one took its place, a living room. 

Walsh, thoroughly shaken and confused, hit his knees and curled around his chest and had a panic attack. 

The hands of another Human were abruptly on him, having him sit up and unlocking his hands from the collar. 

“Easy now, easy,” the new Human murmured. “Always bringing home the most beat up and shitty one they can find, aren’t they?” 

Walsh tried to focus on his breathing and calming the stabbing pain in his chest. 

The  _ Chipokals _ said something, and the Human responded in a mix of Standard and whatever the  _ Chipokal _ language was, which surprised him. 

“C’mon, mate, let’s get you up.” 

The other Human boosted him up and helped him across the room, setting him down in a corner and gently patting him on the shoulder. “There. You’re military, right? So you probably like the corners.” 

Walsh, gradually calming down, became aware of the  _ Chipokal’s _ eyes on him, actually looking  _ concerned _ . He almost scoffed at that, but his throat was still too tight. 

“Calm down, it’s all okay.” The Human started becoming visible, a regular-looking woman without a collar or muzzle on. “There ya go, that’s right, just settle down.” 

Walsh grunted and put his hands up, trying to say he was fine. 

“Who got drug in this time?” a lazy voice drawled from somewhere behind the woman. 

“I don’t know his name yet, he had a panic attack when he got here.” 

“Figures.” A man sauntered into Walsh’s field of vision, looking all of the word ‘asshole.’ “He looks like a sick cat could kill him.” 

“Leave him alone, Meesh, he hasn’t even been here for five minutes.” 

The female  _ Chipokal _ stepped up behind the girl and handed her the key for Walsh’s muzzle. 

“Hold still,” the girl said, reaching behind his head and unlocking the torturous device. 

She eased it off and Walsh’s good hand went to his face, gently feeling for where the ill-fitting muzzle had drawn blood from otherwise clammy skin. It felt good to have it off. 

“There.” The girl handed the muzzle and the key to the  _ Chipokals _ and turned back to Walsh. “I’m Sage, the asshole back there’s Meesh.” 

“Walsh,” he grated, feeling his throat crack from lack of use. 

“You’re military?” 

“A captain.” 

Meesh sneered at that. “What a big tough guy.” He knelt down and stabbed Walsh’s chest with his finger. “Look, you get it through your head that  _ I’m _ the Alpha here, and I get everything first, ok? You kapeesh the Meesh?” 

Walsh just stared at him for a second, thinking, ‘God, you have got to be fucking  _ kidding _ me.’ 

Meesh snarled at the lack of response and pressed his finger further into Walsh’s brittle chest, watching the man go through several waves of pain and panic. 

Walsh suddenly wrapped his cuffed hands around Meesh’s and twisted hard, throwing the man off of him and against the wall. Getting his hands around Meesh’s throat and pressing warningly, he snarled, “Don’t you  _ ever _ touch me again.” 

“Walsh, take it easy,” Sage muttered, holding his shoulder and gently pulling him back. 

Walsh let her move him and crumpled back into the corner, breathing harshly but not looking away from Meesh’s stunned form. 

“Don’t ever touch me,” Walsh raspingly said again, because he couldn’t remember if he’d said it before or not. 

“Don’t worry, he won’t,” Sage soothed. 

The  _ Chipokals _ were looking on with interest from some sort of sitting platform. They didn’t move to intervene. 

Slowly catching his breath, Walsh indicated the  _ Chipokals _ with his eyes. “Who are  _ they _ ?” 

“She’s Teb’raa and he’s Rar’aan.” She searched his pinched face. “Don’t hold the sins of their race against them, ok? They’re very kind, they saved our lives.” 

“From what?” 

“Some  _ Chipokals _ eat Humans, you know. Once you’re irreparably injured, that’s where you’re probably gonna go. The butcher’s.” She motioned to her leg, which had a full-form brace on it. “Teb’raa and Rar’aan took pity on us, and we should be grateful.” 

Walsh snorted, but didn’t pursue it. He settled back into the corner, keeping a wary eye on the  _ Chipokals _ across the room. They stared at him back for a while, then eventually Rar’aan stood up and walked into another room. 

He came back with two bowls that he gave to Sage before rejoining Teb’raa. Sage set the bowls beside Walsh. 

Rar’aan said something, and Sage translated, “He says that he doubts you’ve been given anything to eat or drink for a while.” 

Walsh studied the bowls. One contained something like pemmican, the other plain water. 

Seeing his skepticism, Sage took a small handful of the food and ate it. “Here, I promise it isn’t poisoned.” 

Walsh weakly, hesitantly, took a small piece. The  _ Chipokal _ was right, he hadn’t been given anything for two days now. 

The  _ Chipokals _ nodded approvingly and started talking to themselves about whatever it was  _ Chipokals _ talked about, taking all of their worrying attention off of him. 

Meesh got his feet back under him and skulked away to somewhere else in the house. 

“You were hurt by other  _ Chipo’s _ , weren’t you?” Sage gently asked, following his wary looks. 

“Classified,” Walsh automatically said. She was a civilian, for one, and for another he was none too proud of the torture he’d recieved and couldn’t defend against. That he’d been spared while the rest of his unit was left in a dungeon to rot and be hurt in his place. No, he was unlikely to tell anyone other than superiors about any of this nightmare. 

Sage watched him go through those thoughts, his eyes growing distant, and waited until he was back in the moment to say anything. “I’m a first lieutenant, sir. I know what happens when the  _ Chipo’s _ first get you.” 

Walsh looked her over again. “Then you know why I don’t want to talk about it. And why I don’t much trust  _ them _ ,” he indicated Teb’raa and Rar’aan with his chin. 

Sage nodded. “That’s your right, Cap. But if you try to hurt either of them, senior officer or not I  _ will _ put you down.” 

Walsh almost smirked, but his numb face remained impassive. “Got a bit of stockholm syndrome, Lieutenant?” 

Sage almost slapped him, and probably would have if he didn’t look as pitiful as someone who’d been close to death for several weeks. So she just glowered at him. “No, just gratitude.” 

Chapter 4

Infection set in on the second day in the  _ Chipo  _ abode, and Walsh couldn't have been less surprised. His captors, however, just witnessed him throw up twice and dry heave a few more times with no small measure of fear. They had likely never seen Human sickness and infection. 

Sage, every the caretaker, had forced him to remove his shirt in front of the  _ chipo’s _ and Meesh to be able to treat his numerous wounds. Even sadistic Meesh looked away from the carnage that was Walsh’s body. 

There were massive, blackened bruises all over, oozing blood and criss-crossed with tension cuts from swelling. His ribs were obviously damaged still, the cracks were visible in the bruises like an echograph. On his back, where he’d been whipped multiple times, the deeper cuts were inflamed and leaking pus. 

And Walsh was shivering from fever in the warm room. 

Sage must have given the  _ Chipo’s  _ a list of needed materials, because the next time Walsh came out of unconsciousness Sage was forcing pills and broth down his throat. He predictably choked on it and got a few dirty looks for it. 

He was laying in a mass of blankets, some under him but most over him. He also wasn’t in the living room any more. He was in a different room, smaller, with two fluffy-looking beds in the other corners and a mess of regular Human-stuff around. 

“Really? A dog house?” he rasped, unimpressed. 

“More like a guest bedroom,” Sage corrected as she gave him another spoonful of broth. 

“Yeah, that you can’t leave.” Walsh turned his head away weakly. “I’ll just throw it up again.” 

Sage frowned. “Not necessarily. You need the nutrients, Cap. Your body’s already deteriorated enough.” 

Walsh actually chuckled, a rasp noise that wasn’t very funny to hear back. He felt himself fading, again. “I . . . . knew they were . . . . synthetic.” 

And black swallowed him yet another time, thrusting him violently into violent fever dreams that left him panting and thrashing when he woke. For a week straight. 

It was taking a toll on him, and on Sage and the  _ Chipo’s _ , even. 

Meesh threatened him once, while he was still only strong enough to hold his eyes open for a few seconds and remember to breath. Meesh said that if Walsh didn’t get better and stop screaming in his sleep, he was going to send him to the butchers. Or eat him himself. Which was by far the most disturbing thing Meesh said. Quite a feat, truly. 

The  _ Chipo’s _ came in to check him a few times a day, sometimes he was conscious and sometimes he wasn’t. 

There was genuine concern in them, he learned, and while it wasn’t understood it was kind of appreciated, somewhere in the back of his mind that he tried to ignore. He hadn’t had anyone  _ actually _ care about him in a long time. 

Those thoughts turned him rather waspish toward everyone for the next few days, especially Sage. 

She merely looked at him and said, “Got a bit of stockholm syndrome, there, Cap?” 


End file.
